


A Piece of History

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [30]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Blue Mountains | Ered Luin, Gen, Inspired by Fanart, Pre-The Hobbit, getting ready for the wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 19:59:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12327831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Getting ready for the wedding of Dís and Víli.





	A Piece of History

**Author's Note:**

> [Based on this lovely art](https://lucife56.tumblr.com/post/160634300537/dis-before-the-braiding-part-of-her-wedding)  
>  (You should check out the rest of their stuff)

“You look beautiful,” Thorin said, entering the room quietly. Frís stepped back, putting the brush in her hand down on the table beside her. Dís smiled; her hazel eyes shining green with happiness, her cheeks rosy.

“Thank you, nanad,” she murmured, her smile widening as she studied herself in the small mirror, twirled once to show off her fine clothes. “I’m… happy.”

“Good,” he replied, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. “You deserve it, zunshanush,” he murmured, sliding a silk ribbon around her neck; Dís smiled, lifting the pendent that hung from it. Tying a knot, Thorin stepped back, letting their amad return to brushing the long mahogany locks until they shone. Dís released her pendent slowly, letting the double square with its three small sapphires come to rest on her chest. Tracing the fine metalwork, she smiled at her brother in the small mirror.

“You made this,” she whispered. Thorin smiled, even if it was a little shadowed. The simple silver bore the mark of the Line of Durin, and three small sapphires were all they had been able to afford between them. Still, it was well-made, even if his hands had never been meant for silverwork.

“Dwalin helped.” Thorin admitted. In the mirror, Dís smirked, fingering the engravings in the silver plates. The markings were finely made. The symbols of her house interwoven with knots for luck and happiness; Dís knew what they meant, the sentiment carried in the small gift.

“I know,” she smiled, “thank him for me.” Thorin nodded, taking the brush from Frís’ hands and attacking his own wavy locks.

“I, too, have a present for you,” Frís said, her mellifluous voice wrapping itself around her children and evoking memories of thousands of lullabies and bedtime stories. Picking up a small box, the Dowager Queen – though Thorin refused to refer to her as such, Frís knew what she was; knew that her son’s hopes would come to naught and her husband would never return to them – pushed back the lid, revealing a fine chain with another pendent resting on a small pillow. “This was mine,” she said, fingering the chain, “I wore it for my wedding, and the chain was my amad’s; it is the only thing left.” The original pendent, meant to rest on the forehead and part of a much larger headpiece, had been sold off during their first years in exile; the diamonds and sapphires bartered away for clothing and food; taken apart by skilled hands to make the valuable piece stretch longer. Now, of course, it was a simple piece of silver, though Frís had taken one of the few gems Thraín had left and set it in the metal. “This was your adad’s,” she murmured, tracing the beautiful sapphire, “I remember making the ring that held it. I gave it to him when I told him I was carrying you.” He had left it, going to Erebor, for Frís to sell if times got harder, but she had kept it, waiting for this day.

“Amad, I can’t…” Dís protested. “This is yours.” Frís waved away her protest, laying the silver flat against her forehead and tying the chain into the clasp that held the long tresses in the back.

“Now it will be yours,” she whispered, kissing her daughter’s dark head. “And if the Maker and the Giver of Fruit are kind; some day, you will pass it to your own pebble, and remember those who have come before you.”

“Thank you, Amad,” Dís replied, catching her hand and squeezing it tightly. Frís smiled. Turning around, she sighed.

“You’re impossible, kundanudê,” she murmured, taking the brush from Thorin’s hand and turning her attention to his hair. Thorin scowled, while his sister’s laugh rung out in the small chamber. He held his tongue, however, feeling Frís’ hands shake with emotion she obviously didn’t want Dís to see.

Someone knocked on the door. Dwalin poked his head through the door, smiling widely when he caught sight of the bride. They had seen the robes while they were being made, of course, but it was not the same as seeing the full ensemble.

“It’s time.” The three Durins nodded, and the younger two kindly didn’t mention the shine in their amad’s eyes. Picking up her robes, Dís was first through the door, her brother and mother flanking her as they left the house, walking through the village. She smiled, keeping her pace slow and measured with conscious effort.

Víli was waiting.

The future was waiting for her.


End file.
